9. Emrys
Emrys
I wake up with my cheek against Skylar Grayson’s shirt and my hand curled near his ribs like I put it there on purpose.
For a minute, I stay still. Morning has softened the apartment into gray light, and Skylar’s breathing moves slow beneath my ear, steady enough that my body doesn’t rush straight into panic.
His arm rests loose around my back, the blanket he must have covered us with slipped low around my shoulder, his scent coating every inch of me.
He stayed.
I should move. I know that. I also know I’ve slept better against him than I have anywhere else since the alley, and that makes something in my chest soften.
Amber and sandalwood are quieter on him asleep, warmer without the edge he carries when he’s awake and working. His mouth is relaxed, his dark hair messy, and he looks less like the detective who walked into the station and more like a man who forgot to keep himself braced for a few hours.
I ease back slowly. His arm slips from my back before pulling the blanket over him and tucking it around his shoulder where it had fallen. His hand shifts open against the couch cushion, and I look away before I do something ridiculous with how badly I want to touch it.
The kitchen gives me somewhere to put my hands.
Eggs, toast, coffee. I crack the eggs into a bowl, add salt, pepper, and a splash of milk, then cut thick slices from yesterday’s cardamom honey loaf.
The coffee machine sputters like it resents being asked to work before sunrise, but it gets there eventually.
By the time the eggs are in the pan, the apartment smells like butter, toast, coffee, and warm bread.
Skylar wakes while I’m plating everything. He shifts first, then inhales like he’s surfacing too fast. His eyes open and sharpen on the room, moving to the door, the window, the hall, then me by the stove.
“I’m here,” I say before he can ask. “The door’s locked. Nothing happened. I made breakfast.”
His shoulders lower as he looks at the blanket, then the laptop, then me. “I fell asleep.”
“You did. I was very gracious about it.”
“You were asleep on me.”
“I was asleep, so I can’t be held responsible for my choices.” I set his plate at the small table and put coffee beside it. “Sit down before your back starts a lawsuit.”
He stands carefully, stiff from the couch but refusing to show it more than necessary. His shirt is wrinkled where my hand must have been curled into it, and I look away fast enough that he almost doesn’t catch me. Almost.
“I made coffee too,” I point at the mug at the edge of the counter, his mouth curving into a small smile.
His look is softer in the morning, and it makes him feel dangerous in a completely unreasonable way.
He reaches for the fork, pauses for half a second like the motion has taken more effort than it should, and my hand moves before I know what I’m doing.
I pick up his fork, scoop a bite of eggs, and hold it out. “Here.”
Skylar goes still. Heat climbs my neck, but I just hang there, refusing to break the moment.
He stayed. He came when I called. He spent the night on my couch because I needed him here and never made me say it like that.
Feeding him one bite shouldn’t feel like anything more than food, but my pulse doesn’t seem to care about should.
His eyes lift to mine, and after one suspended second, he leans forward and takes the bite.
The satisfaction that moves through me is nearly overwhelming, my Omega purring at the quiet pleasure of feeding someone who needed it and let me. Skylar chews slowly, watching me with an expression that tries to be normal and fails at the edges.
“Good?” I ask.
“Good,” he says, voice rough from sleep.
I give him one more bite. After that, he takes the fork gently from my hand, careful not to brush my fingers. “I can manage.”
“I was checking.”
“For poison?”
“For whether you were awake enough to operate cutlery.”
His smile deepens by a fraction. “Fair concern.”
Silence moves between us as we eat together, Skylar across from me with his shoulders slowly loosening. He picks up the coffee, takes a sip, his eyes moving to my cheek. “How’s your head and the bruise?”
“Better. Still hurts if I move too fast.” I touch the edge of the bruise and stop when his eyes follow my hand. “I’m not dizzy right now.” I huff a small laugh and pick at my toast. “I used you as a mattress, so that probably helped.”
“You slept. I wasn’t going to argue with the method.”
His voice is gentle enough that I look down at my plate before my face starts giving away my emotions.
Warmth reaches my face, spreading down my neck.
If I don’t keep that under wraps, my scent will start betraying me and I can’t let Skylar think these little moments mean anything more than they do.
Skylar takes a few more bites before filling the silence. “I put in a request for the entrance and street footage from last night. If he was there, I want him on camera.”
My fingers tighten around my own mug. “If?”
“I believe you saw him.” His eyes stay on mine. “The camera is for everyone who needs more than that.”
“I keep thinking maybe I made him up,” I push out, my stomach doing a little flip.
“You didn’t make up the first attack. You didn’t make up him knowing your name.
” Skylar looks at the table for a second, then back at me.
“There’s something else. We reviewed traffic footage from a block over from the first night.
It caught a figure close to the description you gave.
Same jacket, same build, moving away from the building after the call came in. ”
My toast goes cold in my hand. “So he was real.”
“Yes,” Skylar says. “He was real.”
I breathe in and it catches halfway, not quite a sob, not quite relief. “I hate that I need to hear that. What about Kade?”
Skylar’s expression shifts inward, toward the part of the case he is still trying to pry open. “I’m going to find out where the order stands today. I can’t promise you something I don’t have yet, but I can ask why it’s still being held the way it is when the file keeps moving away from him.”
I mumble a thanks and finish my breakfast. When breakfast is done, Skylar carries his plate to the sink. I let him get that far before I move in front of it.
“You slept sitting up on my couch. You don’t have to do anything.” He tries to reach past me. “Skylar!” My voice wobbles a little and he just chuckles, leaning against the counter while I wash the plates.
Amber and sandalwood thread through coffee and soap, Skylar watching the door without making it obvious, and I let myself move around him because he doesn’t try to take over the room. After I dry my hands, I reach for a paper bag from the drawer, not even really realizing what I’m doing.
A few slices of good bread go inside before a fig jam in a tiny jar, an apple from the bowl because Priya would know if I sent him away with only bread. I fold the bag closed and hold it out.
Skylar looks at it, then at me. “What’s this?”
“Lunch.” He hesitates and I sigh, a smile spreading across my lips. “I know you didn’t but take it as a thank you. And I know I made breakfast but that’s just standard after you slept over. So now...”
He takes the bag slowly, like he’s not used to being handed food without a reason he can file. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I walk him toward the door, Skylar grabbing his things off the couch.
It isn’t until he’s standing inches away from me, his hand on the knob pulling the door open that I break the silence.
“You can come back,” I say before I think better of it.
“If you need somewhere quiet for case notes. Or if the station coffee gets aggressive. You don’t have to. I just mean… you can.”
Skylar’s face changes slowly, the humor easing out into desire. “Emrys.”
“I don’t know why I said that.”
My heartbeat kicks hard enough, my eyes dipping to his lips, falling on the crumb on his jaw, just below the corner of his mouth.
My hand lifts to brush it off, Skylar stiffening beneath my touch.
The crumb brushes away under my thumb, but my hand stays.
His stubble is rough against my palm, and his scent warms so quickly the small entryway seems to fill with him.
The space between us closes, each inch disappearing between us until his mouth finds mine, or mine finds his.
The kiss is brief, but real enough to knock every thought out of my head.
His lips are warm, still for half a second, then barely moving against mine before we both remember the door is open and the hallway exists.
We break apart, my hand still near his jaw, and it takes me too long to lower it.
“I should go,” he says, voice low. He reaches for the doorknob, misses it once, then finds it. He steps into the hall and turns back like he means to say something official, but there is nothing official left on his face. “Lock the door behind me.”
“I will.”
“And call me if anything feels wrong.”
“Is that detective permission?”
His eyes drop to my mouth and come back up. “That’s me saying call.”
Then he leaves before either of us can make it harder.
I lock the door and stay there with my fingers on the deadbolt, my mouth still warm from his. I touch my fingers to my lips and let myself breathe around the truth sitting quietly in the room.
He is mine, isn’t he?